“Something my aunt told me once. She said that you always had to choose between the path of needles and the path of pins. When a dress is torn, you know, you can just pin it up, or you can take the time to sew it together. That’s what it means. The quick and easy way, or the painful way that works.”
That’s what Aunt Léonie said, but really she had chosen the path of pins. All her aunt’s charms could do was pin the world together—keep people a little bit safer, give them a little more time.
Rachelle wanted to sew the world back to safety, if she must use her own bones for needles.
It ended on a moonless autumn night, when the wind was moaning in the trees. The forestborn stood on the opposite side of a little clearing, his breath frosting the air. He looked as remote and foreign as the stars, but Rachelle was determined to have his secrets before dawn.
She asked, “Do you know how Zisa bound the Devourer?”
“Maybe,” said the forestborn. “But why should I tell our secrets to one who doesn’t trust us?”
“Would you tell them to somebody who did?” she asked.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
He had never hurt her. All these days they had met alone in the woods, and he had never even tried.
“Yes,” she said, and looked into the eyes that she could never remember. “I trust you.”
“Then prove it,” he said. “Take off your cloak. If you’re right, you won’t be needing it anymore.”
Her red cloak was embroidered with charms to hold the power of the Great Forest away. She was never supposed to take it off in the woods, and her fingers trembled as she undid the pin, but she did not hesitate. The dark red wool slid off her shoulders and puddled at her feet.
His teeth gleamed as he smiled and stepped toward her. “Little girl,” he said, “take off your belt. You won’t be needing it anymore.”
She was shuddering now in the cold and her fingers were numb. She gripped the belt buckle, but she could barely feel it. Aunt Léonie had spent six months braiding and rebraiding the leather before she was satisfied that the belt was strong enough protection for her apprentice.
It was too late to turn back. But she still said, “Tell me first. Is there a way to stop the Devourer?”
He stepped closer. “Yes.”
The metal bit at her fingers as she fumbled the clasp open. And then the belt fell to the ground, and she was standing without charms, with safety, and her blood was pounding hot and ready.
“So tell me,” she said, and it felt like the world was whirling and creaking and falling apart around her. All her life she’d been traveling toward this moment where she wagered everything, and whatever happened, she would never be the same. “Tell me about the Devourer. All I need to know.”
“All you need to know,” he whispered, and his hands gently cupped her shoulders.
Then he slammed her against the nearest tree.
For a moment the pain dazed her. Then his mouth was pressed over hers and his tongue was forcing her lips open and sliding inside. It was a bizarre, helpless sensation, nothing like she’d heard kisses were supposed to be. She choked and tried to push him away, but he had her pinned.
Then he pulled back, and while she was still gasping for breath, he pressed his thumb to the base of her throat. From that one little point, fire seared throughout her body.
When she was aware again, she was lying crumpled on the snow. The forestborn stood over her, tall and remote and terrible.
“This is all you need to know,” he says. “You belong to our lord and master now. And you will kill for him before three days are up, or you will die.”
Her body was numb except for the throbbing pain of the mark on her neck. She knew what it looked like: an eight-pointed black star. If she killed somebody and became a bloodbound, it would turn crimson.
“You said,” she choked out, “that you would tell me how to stop him.”
“Yes,” said her forestborn. “The only way to stop him is with Durendal and Joyeuse, the swords of Tyr and Zisa. And those swords are lost forever.”
Then he was gone.
She lasted for nearly three days.
On the first day, she hid the mark under a scarf and tried to be brave.
On the second day, she crept into the village church, clutching her rosary, and begged the Dayspring for a miracle.
On the third day, she gave up and ran for Aunt Léonie’s house. The mark hurt so badly she could barely breathe. She didn’t care anymore how ashamed she was; she just wanted Aunt Léonie to comfort her. Surely she could help. Aunt Léonie had always been able to make everything all right.
Around her, the woods awoke. Shadows became deeper shadows, and eyes glimmered from their depths. Ghostly fawns leaped over tree roots and disappeared. The Great Forest was coming into being all around her, and soon she would be lost. Then she made the last turn, and she finally saw Aunt Léonie’s house. She sobbed in relief as she staggered to the door.
But she was too late.
The forestborn had gotten there first.